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A glass flower for my mother, who's beauty shines pain. She stands strong, putting on a front of invincibility. but she is also fragile. Worried, wanting the best for her children.
When my mother lost my sister, her first daughter, we thought she would shatter. It seemed that she did. When the dust settled, she stood strong. Dust of broken glass floated away from her and she remained a single glass flower. Fragile, glowing with beauty, but with cracks that can never be repaired.

Painting is therapeutic for me. I express my trauma, recovery, fear of improving, hope, despair, profound shame, anger, true joy, newfound sexuality, and qualities in myself I never knew existed. I am breaking through and processing. I love seeing my artwork evolve with my mental health. Sometimes, I imagine breaking through a black-painted window and escaping a dark room, a lightless place filled with razors and broken mirrors. Outside, there are shards of glass everywhere. It is still painful, but I finally escaped. And the wounds will heal. They are healing. I pour my soul into my paintings because I must stay grounded. My parts, my emotions. I urgently and compassionately create visual representations of them because if I don't, the...